Tonight I Wanna Cry  Forever
by TheLaikynVictoria
Summary: Tim takes grief to the extreme. SEQUEL TO 'HERE COMES GOODBYE', read it first!


**_A/N- Hey! This is a sequel to 'Here Comes Goodbye', and you MIGHT want to read that one first, or else this one will end up being a shock. This will be a 2 (or maybe 3, haven't decided yet) part song-fic with different songs. This one is to 'Tonight I Wanna Cry' by Keith Urban. The next one will be 'Forever' by Rascal Flatts. So put this on alert, because there will be at least 1 more 'chapter', if you will._**

And PLEASE REVIEW! I love reviews and I love you guys! 

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_**Alone in this house again tonight/I got the TV on, the sound turned down and a bottle of wine**_

_**There's pictures of you and I on the walls around me/The way that it was and could have been surrounds me**_

_**I'll never get over you walkin' away**_

Tim sat in the living room of his and Ziva's would-have-been home, the bottle of white wine sit half empty as the TV played the news with the volume muted. A year since Ziva's death and no closure. No content. Just pain, heartache and a little drunkenness. There's nothing that Tim could do that made it okay. The rest of the team had somewhat moved on, and were grieving in their own ways. A new agent had been assigned to the team, taking over Ziva's desk. Just as it had with Kate, this caused some strife for the few months but everything mellowed and they all learned to accept the new 'probie', especially Tony. A picture of Ziva graced near everyones' desks as they remembered her in the best way possible. (Abby had decked her lab out in everything Ziva' the first few months following her death, but eventually that faded and she had just a few pictures on her desk and a few next to her compute on her table.)

Everyone had in some way received closure and contentment.

Except for Tim.

The thing that replayed in his mind, over and over again, was her tear-filled eyes and her slightly messy hair as she kissed him gently, and then her walking away from him after telling him that she might not return. He's not sure how he managed to stay in the home, and more once he'd thought of trying to get back into his still-vacated apartment. After she died, he continued hanging pictures around the house. The pictures were all of him and her, and their time they'd had together. Most of them were of just the two of them, but a lot also contained the rest of Team Gibbs. Their engagement photos were the most prominent as they hung proudly in the entryway, accent lights making them all the more visible.

But no picture was needed to clearly remember her walking away.

_**I've never been the kind to ever let my feelings show/And I thought that bein' strong meant never losin' your self-control**_

_**But I'm just drunk enough to let go of my pain/To hell with my pride, let it fall like rain/From my eyes**_

People tried to comfort Tim, to help him move on and have some fun for the first time since she left, but the efforts proved futile. Tim was depressed, and there was no doubt about it.

He so wished that this was all just a horrible, horrible dream or some sick joke, but he awoke every morning with the heart-wrenching reality of her not being next to him.

It was slowly but surely killing himself, and there was seemingly nothing anyone could about it. Tim, after drinking a few beers, walked from the living room, into the kitchen. He opened the fridge slowly and surveyed the contents, not too sure what he was looking for, but looking for something nonetheless. Perhaps he was trying to occupy his mind, he wasn't too sure, but when the doorbell rang from the next room, he was no less than bumfuzzled. Considering it was 2 in the morning, Tim wasn't exactly expecting any visitors.

He walked toward the door, and after thinking about it a moment he was sure it was Ms. White, the crazy woman next door who though 5 PM was the middle of the night.

"Hettie, I'm not really in the mo-" He stopped when he realized that the person standing on his front porch was _not_ Hettie White.

"Hey there, Timmy." Tony greeted, letting himself inside as he pushed past Tim.

"Tony, what..What are you doing?" Tim followed Tony into the living room, confused.

"Just came by to see how you're doing." Tony shrugged as he settled into the plush arm chair. "Y'know, I was in the neighborhood."

"Tony, you live on the other side of of town." Tim muttered, sitting down on the couch opposite of him. "And it's two."

"So?"

"What do you mean 'so?', DiNozzo?" McGee eyed him. "It's two o clock in the morning, normal people sleep at this time."

"You weren't."

"What?"

"You weren't sleeping."

"Tony..."

"Tim." Tony cut him off as he leaned forward and folded his hands together. "It's only going hurt worse if you keep your emotions bottled up inside."

Tim stayed silent as he stared at his hands. He could feel Tony's eyes boring holes in his head as he mumbled something incoherently .

"Tim, I may not have lost my fiance, but I lost one of the closest friends I'd ever had." Tony continued. "You and Ziva, Man..You all_ had_ it and I envied you for it-"

"And this is supposed to make me feel _better_?" Tim cut in, glaring at him.

"What I'm saying, Tim, is...I loved Kate with everything I had, but I never told her before.." Tony inhaled deeply. "I never had the chance, and I never knew how she felt about me. You had that chance, Tim, and you know that Ziva loved you."

"Yeah?" Tim shrugged. "And? How is this supposed to make me feel good?"

"It will make you feel good because you can know that she died with nothing in her heart but love," Tony said softly, "for you. She died knowing that you loved her without fail."

"But..None of that matters if she's gone." Tim shook his head. "I loved her, she loved me, but she's dead now."

"She'd dead, Tim, but your love for her isn't." Tony said with a small grin. "No matter how corny that sounds."

There was pause as Tim attempted to compose himself, and failed.

"It's okay to want to..Hurt, Tim, and to want to be angry." Tony told him. "It's okay to want to cry."

_**Tonight I wanna cry**_

And cry Tim did.

_**Would it help if I turned a sad song on/"All By Myself" would sure hit me hard now that you're gone**_

_**Or maybe unfold some old yellow lost love letters/It's gonna hurt bad before it gets better**_

_**But I'll never get over you by hidin' this way**_

Tony had long since left, and the morning sun was beginning to rise and Tim was sitting in his study, music playing softly. He wasn't sure what it was that was playing, but whatever it was, it sounded sad. He had a stack of letters displayed in front of him. All of them were from Ziva, and all of them were sent to him during a time she was in Tel Aviv, when they couldn't even call each other. The resorted to 'snail mail', (or 'slug mail', as Ziva had called it) and that was fine by Tim. He loved having the memento, not to mention the romantic prospect of going back ten years later reading them together.

Now he'll never know what that feels like.

He read all 243 letters, one for each day she was gone, and read them again. Before he knew it, his stomach was noticeably growling and so was Jethro, making him realize it was nearly noon. So after he let Jethro out into the backyard, he tended to his hunger, but found that he couldn't eat. The deep reminiscing for the past few nights had driven him crazy. He hadn't slept, he hadn't eaten. Honestly, he probably hadn't eaten a decent meal since Ziva died. He absentmindedly let Jethro back inside and went back to his study, where he stayed for the rest of the day.

_**I've never been the kind to ever let my feelings show/And I thought that bein' strong meant never losin' your self-control**_

_**But I'm just drunk enough to let go of my pain/To hell with my pride, let it fall like rain/From my eyes**_

_**Tonight I wanna cry**_

The grieving, brunette man gave in.

He drank until he couldn't drink anymore, and then some. To an alcoholic, the amount he drank was miniscule. But to a man that barely drank, the strongest thing he'd ever drank being white wine, he was on a binge.

So after his third bottle of vodka, he fell to the floor in his own vomit and tears, unconscious.

Another brunette man was worried when his friend wouldn't answer the door. He was home. He had to be. Where else would he go? He banged and banged on the door, yelling at the top of his lungs and praying that his old friend would come to the door.

"Tim! Open the door! Tim!"

_Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!_

"TIM!"


End file.
